


Squeeze

by Nelja-in-English (Nelja)



Series: Porn for every Power [13]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Breathplay, Do Not Archive, Episode 50: Foundations, Episode Related, Light Bondage, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV First Person, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-05
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2020-01-05 07:06:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18361085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nelja/pseuds/Nelja-in-English
Summary: George Gilbert Scott was a "young fool with a patron he did not understand"But the day he understands, he won't go back.





	Squeeze

**Author's Note:**

> Thank to Onnastik for the beta! Especially for imitating 19th century speech!  
> (I know nothing about the historical George Gilbert Scott except for his wiki page. This is not RPF, this is purely TMA fic)

Ancient Greeks told that inspiration came from the Gods; but though there are Muses for poetry and music, there is none for Architecture. So who inspired the Greek geniuses to build the Parthenon and the other masterpieces, most now lost? Was it Athena, goddess of cleverness and craft? Was it Apollo, the poet, god of art, who built the walls of Troy with Poseidon, earthshaker, lord of underwater caves? 

In my soul, in my creative mind, I feel that architecture comes from more powerful urges and older gods. Early Man lived in caves, the modern men of science say, and houses are caves we build, caves we control. We seek the comfort of a earlier age, and with that comes the fascination of it, and the humility. 

I despise those who would reduce my work to numbers and geometric lines. Such things are essential, of course, but they are no more the whole of it than the chemistry of pigment is painting. My former employer, Kempthorne, was one of these fools. Always he criticized my designs in the name of some outdated principles. The time I spent with him was not entirely lost, however. I made useful contacts, even if I had to pay the price of tolerating him. And the opposition, sometimes, gave me some of my most brilliant insights.

Brilliance - that was what Kempthorne lacked. When he lost some blueprints, it was a matter of time only before recreating them. For me, once the light of divine inspiration was gone, I'd never find that one again. And on this occasion, I had just realized that one of mine had fallen behind the drawing table on my then-office, in his building.

I could have called on him and asked after it, but we were on bad terms. He wouldn't have understood. I could imagine him mocking me, telling me to start again, telling me he had thrown it away, and fury was already overwhelming me. A meeting would not go well, so I simply seethed, regretting my lost piece like a man misses a part of his soul. 

I might have cursed and shouted in the intimity of my small room. I might have made wishes and promises and prayers. But I regret nothing, of course, quite the reverse!

Days had passed, but my soul had not been soothed. It was nighttime, almost dark save for the soft light of the half-moon through my window. I was waiting for a sleep that didn't come. My body needed it, but my mind was full of my many tasks. Then I heard, outside my room, a jingling as of a ring of keys.

My first reaction was one of alarm. What was someone doing in my house? All of a sudden I could scarcely breathe. The door of my room had no lock. Even if it had, the visitor had all the keys. I knew he had.

I wanted to stand up, to face him like a man, but I couldn't. My blanket was too heavy on my chest for me to hope to lift. Or perhaps it was that the ceiling had lowered, pushing me down into the mattress. I could only watch as the visitor entered my room.

He looked like a man of the people, with big, red, callused hands and strong muscles, but I instantly knew he was more than this. Sometimes gods take an inglorious form to test mortals, but I wasn't fooled. I wanted to touch those hands of stone and dust; I wanted to be close. I opened my mouth, and I knew exactly what to say. I like to think that I would have, even without Smirke's persiflage.

"We serve the same side," I breathed. “I am yours.”

He came close to me, and put his hand upon my throat.

I was terrified, and it was the most wonderful emotion I had ever felt. I wanted more, but as I tried to open my mouth to ask, I found that I could no longer breathe, no more than I could move, trapped under the weight of his hand alone. But he understood me! And as his hand moved lower on my chest, trapping me even more fully, I thought about the weakness a soul could feel in the womb, and how no air or lungs were needed. I thought about the death in a lover's arms, and the end of all breath. 

The keys were jingling still. I knew that they could lock anything, trap me under chains and doors and cages and cells. I knew also that they could unlock the shackles the world had unjustly placed upon my mind and soul.

His other hand - so heavy - settled between my legs.

I won't deny the ecstasy I felt under his hands, my body immobilised, offered up, my brain starved of oxygen, every second closer to fainting or dying or transcendence. I have no shame; it was not truly a man nor even a human. The only reason I did not beg is because I had no voice; the only reason I did not writhe is because I was trapped under the weight of divinity.

He gave me all a worshipper could wish for, all a lover could desire, and more. The day after, I found the plans I had lost on my writing desk. I remembered how I had felt when I made it. I knew there was something divine in it, and that I could make it better instantly. I had became more.

My night visitor has not returned to this day, though I prayed again for him many times. I believe he was here only to inspire me. And divine gifts are not endlessly bestowed on a single mortal.

But as I supervised the construction site, I heard some of the workmen talking. I knew, of course, I knew what had happened. They said one of them had been cast into the wall because he was not working hard enough, and I understand. The Governor - for I know no earthly name for him - he’s invested in my project and I am blessed.

But as I saw the tips of the worker's fingers emerging from the wall, I couldn't help the deep and bitter envy that filled my soul.


End file.
